Maiden Voyage

FORTY-ONE

At dinner that evening, it was announced with regret that Miss Catriona Keys was "indisposed, from seasickness." There was no reason for any of the first-class passengers to doubt the truth of the story, since fewer than two-thirds of them had found the stomach to turn up for what had been advertised in the ship's newspaper as "a gastronomic celebration in the French style". Even to those who had summoned up the strength to dress in evening gowns and tailcoats, the prospect of sitting down to a menu which included la feuillete de queues d'ecrevisses, le souffle de truite au homard and cote de boeuf St. Christophe au fleurie a la moelle was almost more than their equilibrium could stand. Especially since the Arcadia was still rolling, less violently, but still distinctly, through that humped and glassy-looking ocean that so often follows a storm. Many passengers had only to be reminded that they were on board ship to feel distinctly unwell.

Mark Beeney escorted Marcia Conroy in to dinner. George Welterman did not appear until le rissole de foie gras Perigourdine, and even then was unusually quiet. Still, that didn't matter. Douglas Fairbanks was doing most of the talking, describing with cheerful self-deprecation how he had twisted his ankle. He didn't mind telling his fellow passengers the truth, as long as the press headlined his injury as the result of an "heroic attempt to rescue a doomed young heiress."

Maurice Peace was there, at Rudyard Philips' table, eating with the amiable relentlessness of the born freeloader. Baroness Zawisza had been through a fierce argument with her gigolo Sabran after the storm, and so now she was eating alone, with exhibitionistic sparseness, leaving her crayfish tails untouched, and her goose-liver rissole nothing but nibbled, in the hope that Sabran would see how much she was suffering. At the same time, however, she was raising and lowering her finely plucked eyebrows at Claude Graham-White, who was sitting opposite. She didn't realise that Claude Graham-White was attempting to remember the whole of "The English Flag" by Kipling (What should they know of England, who only England know?") as a means of neutralising her blatant eroticism.

Lady Diana FitzPerry was sitting at Dick Charles' table, and she didn't take her eyes away from him for a single moment, even when she was sipping her creme de tortue blonde d'Alexandre Dumas, based on a speciality served at Maxim's, in Paris. Dick Charles, however, was reassured by her attention, rather than disturbed, and he managed to join in the conversation at the table with only a few random stutters. He had been alarmed and confused by her sexual sophistication at first, but now that it was evening again and the storm had subsided, he suddenly began to feel rather warm and rather blase about their whole peculiar night of love, and even to think about Corkies as something he might like to try again.

The extraordinary man in the toupee was also sitting at Dick Charles' table, at the far end, although he said nothing to any of his fellow diners, and sucked at his turtle soup so noisily that the lady next to him was finally constrained to say to the steward, "Do you mind taking this gentleman's soup away? I can't hear the orchestra."

Nobody saw the quick looks that the man in the toupee gave to Lady Diana; or, if they did, they kept it to themselves. They were looks not so much of flirtation, or even of curiosity. They were the half-interested glances of someone who is already aware what is going on and simply wants to keep themselves abreast of events. But Lady Diana was obviously his sole preoccupation, because he fended off any attempts at engaging him in conversation with a one-word answer and a shake of the head.

The centrepiece of the evening, however, was the continuing contest between Mr. Joe Kretchmer and Mr. Duncan Wilkes. After a light tea of cucumber sandwiches, potted shrimps, scones, fruit cake, and cream-filled meringues, they were now addressing themselves to the entire Wednesday-evening dinner menu; turtle soup, goose-liver rissole, trout souffle, and beef and everything, washed down with Riquewihr, Tain-L'Hermitage, La Chapelle-de-Guinchay, and (with the souffle aux fraises) a bottle of Philipponnat champagne.

Both men (to the completely undisguised delight of Maurice Peace) were sweating like hogs, and crimson in the face, and Duncan Wilkes in particular seemed to be finding it increasingly difficult to push each forkful of food into his mouth. He chewed each piece endlessly, frequently covering his mouth with his hand as he belched, and he drank bottle after bottle of Perrier water to aid his digestion. The thought that both of them would rise from three hours of dinner, only to be faced within twenty minutes by a supper of devilled kidneys, calves' brains in black butter, toasted Cheshire cheese, grilled mushrooms, ices, and fresh fruit, was almost more than Maurice could relish. He had taken nearly 4,000 pounds in wagers, and was hoping to clear at least half of that as profit.

Sir Peregrine had taken Dame Clara Butt into dinner, and appeared to be on top form—witty, courteous and full of scandalous little anecdotes about some of the famous and infamous people who had travelled on his ships. He claimed that he had once surprised Lord Curzon very early one morning on the first-class promenade deck, attempting to ride a one-wheeled cycle. He also claimed that one very eminent statesman (whose name he refused to divulge) had missed his way back to his cabin after a particularly bibulous dinner, and had climbed into bed with the elephantine wife of the German Ambassador in New York. He had only discovered his mistake when he awoke the next morning, but the ambassador's wife had been far from upset about it. "I only just managed to escape with my dignity intact," the statesman had told Sir Peregrine. "I also learned the meaning of Achtung!"

Harry Pakenow, in a dinner suit that was only one size too large, had been placed next to Monty Willowby, so that the purser could take care of him. He was beginning to enjoy himself, in spite of his convictions. His cabin was small, but very plush, with its own bath and a small curtained bed instead of a bunk. At first he had considered that he would be betraying the proletariat if he accepted the hospitality of the rich; but then he had thought, I'm going to sink them all soon, why not soak them for all I can get out of them?

What was more, everybody was being so nice to him. Gentlemen passengers had come up and shaken his hand and congratulated him, and some of the younger girls had fluttered their eyelashes and patted their bobbed hair and giggled at him so flirtatiously that he had blushed. Harry had expected to be patronised, but he wasn't. Everybody talked to him as if he were one of the chaps. At least, it seemed to him as if they did. What he didn't understand was that everybody in cabin class was used to being pleasant to their servants (especially these days, when a cook could cost 240 pounds a year) and that he was actually being treated as if he were a chauffeur who had rescued the children of some titled family out of a runaway dogcart.

To Monty's discomfort, Mr. Fribourg had also contrived to sit at his table, and just after the soup he leaned over and murmured, "How are the seats coming along?"

Monty glanced uncomfortably around at his guests. "I have five," he said, quickly raising the fingers of one pudgy hand.

"Five? I need at least fifteen."

"It's not easy," said Monty. "I tried to get Sir Alan Cobham's this morning, but he was sitting at the time."

"It has to be fifteen. For fifteen famous seats, I could make a fortune."

"For God's sake, Fribourg, this whole thing is ridiculous. Why not buy the seats at a plumber's and just pretend they've been sat on by famous people?"

Fribourg stared at Monty for a long time, as if this idea hadn't even occurred to him. Then he shook his head quickly, and said, "No. You think I want to be caught for fraud? I'm an honest man."

The orchestra was playing soothing selections from Tonight's the Night. The huge chandeliers sparkled and glittered. As the soup was finished, the dining-room stewards hurried between the tables gathering the plates. And all the while the Arcadia's turbines thrummed through her superstructure as she forged ahead through the evening Atlantic at nearly twenty-eight knots.

In second class, they were eating asparagus soup and beef Wellington, and listening to a solo lady singer in a fringed frock whose soprano version of "Under The Laburnums" was compared by the sixth officer, a cynical young man called Spratt, to "the strangling of geese by an inexpert foraging detail from the Salvation Army".

In third class, it was tomato soup, liver pate, and roast chicken with lemon stuffing and peas. The topic of conversation at nearly every table was Harry Pakenow, whose rescue of Lucille Foster had elevated him so abruptly to the upper decks. Not just to second class, under whose rubber revolving heels the steerage lived and dined, but to first class, whose kid-soled dancing pumps beat a soft and superior tattoo on the ceilings one storey above. Philly, however, did not miss Harry for longer than an hour or two. Soon she was making eyes at a young physics teacher from Bangs, Texas, who wore a brown and yellow checked three-piece suit and ate everything that was put in front of him. Whatever Philly said, he answered "Yes'm" and "No'm".

Upstairs, in the first-class dining lounge, as the stewards were clearing away the glass dessert dishes with a clatter that sounded like Tibetan monastery wind chimes, Edgar Deacon crossed over to Rudyard Philips' table where George Welterman was sitting, and leaned over George's chair.

"Is everything all right?" he asked, quietly.

George screwed up his napkin in his left hand. "No, Edgar, everything is not all right."

He turned around, so that Edgar could see his raging red bruise. "This," he said, "was courtesy of Mark Beeney."

"Beeney did that?" It was as much as Edgar could do to conceal his pleasure.

"You bet Beeney did it. He forced his way into my stateroom, paid my valet fifty dollars to look in the other direction, then he half drowned me in my own bathtub and beat me up."

"I don't know what to say, old man," said Edgar.

"Well, don't say anything," George told him. "Just put that jumped-up young ape behind bars."

"You're not lodging a complaint for assault, surely?" asked Edgar.

"You want me to lodge a complaint that he was blowing kisses at me?"

"Please," said Edgar, involuntarily colouring at the idea of men blowing kisses to each other. "You have to understand that if you lodge a formal complaint against Mark Beeney, then it's all going to come out about Miss Keys."

"Miss Keys? That harlot! And that's another bone I've got to pick with you, Edgar. I thought you told me she was a flapper. A real hot young sheba, that's what you said. Jesus, it was like trying to get it off with a mountain goat. I've got bruises all over me."

"Perhaps this isn't the time to discuss it," said Edgar, glancing up at the interested faces of the other diners. "Let's talk later in my cabin. Maybe a bottle of Hine will help you to see things a little more calmly."

"I'm calm," gritted George. "On my mother's grave, I'm calm. But don't you or Miss Keys ever try anything like that again. Because Keys Shipping would look pretty sick without IMM's support, don't you agree? And Miss Keys herself would look pretty sick if I got some of my friends from the yellow papers onto her. "Heiress importunes rich passengers for sake of saving her shipping line". How about that? The whore of the high seas."

Edgar, still smiling, said, "I think you'd better withdraw that remark, George."

"I'm not withdrawing anything. Either like it, or stuff it in your ear. Now, will Miss Keys back up an outright sale to IMM, or what?"

Edgar said, "Nobody is backing anything. Not until you withdraw that remark you just made about Miss Keys."

"What are you?" George demanded. "Another one of those knights in armour?"

"You're supposed to be a gentleman, George," said Edgar. "Even when my back's against the wall, even when I don't have a single card left to play, I still expect the people with whom I deal to be gentlemen."

"Forget it, then," said George. "Forget the whole damned deal. Let's just see how Keys can make out without IMM."

"George," said Edgar firmly, and he knew that he didn't have to say anything else. It wasn't in George's interest to let Keys go, and George was only indulging himself in some bad-tempered bluffing. George himself was quite aware that the time wasn't right for that kind of endgame, either, and he allowed his temper to expire, and his head to sink back between his bulky shoulders like the head of a falling pressure valve.

"Very well," he said. "I'm sorry I called her a whore. But, believe me, it's a pity for her that she didn't behave like one. We could have had this deal almost sewn up by now."

"Is that all you expect?" Edgar asked him. "That the people around you should behave like whores?"

George looked back at Edgar with those strange old/young eyes. "When I'm paying yes," he said.

Edgar stood up straight. He looked very correct and Anglo-Indian. There were a hundred things he could have said. But saying what one wanted to say was nothing at all to do with good business. Instead, he laid a hand on George's shoulder and told him wryly, "I'll make sure you're not too disappointed in us."

There was a sharp, impatient knocking on the captain's table. It was Sir Peregrine, who had risen to make a speech. Rudyard Philips, at the next table, allowed his hand to close at last over the hand of Louise Narron, who was sitting beside him, and she gave him in return the kind of look that a white houri might have given an Arabian sheik in one of those softly pornographic Victorian paintings entitled "The Prize of the Hareem." Whatever George Welterman thought, real affection was still possible, even in the advanced age of 1924, and there were still people who would go to bed with each other for no other reason than for love.

Sir Peregrine tugged down his white vest, and then let his arms drop down by his sides. He spoke in a clear, carrying voice—a voice that could be (and had been) heard between two vessels at sea, without the aid of a loud-hailer—and everybody in the long sparkling dining lounge could understand every word. The only trouble was, they couldn't quite understand what the words meant when they were put together.

"My lords, ladies, and gentlemen... today is an auspicious day for all of us, despite the fact that we are at sea. Today is the first day of Ascot, and you will be delighted to know that the storm which afflicted us so ferociously earlier in the day blew itself out... and that Ascot opened in a gay blaze of sunshine."

There was a brief, embarrassed spatter of applause, and Rudyard Philips said, in a voice which he hoped sounded hearty, "Bravo!" Ralph Peel, at the next table, turned away in disgust. He didn't bear a grudge against Rudyard for standing up for Sir Peregrine, but he didn't : want to hear any more of it.

Sir Peregrine acknowledged this applause by lowering his head and staring at his half-eaten strawberry souffle for nearly a minute. Then—just when everybody was beginning to get restless—he snapped his head up again and announced, "I have heard on the ship's wireless that Scullion, belonging to Mr. G. Hardy, won the Ascot Stakes, by lengths from Keror. I think we should all be tremendously pleased. For what reason... well, I think each of us can make his own mind up. Or her own mind up. Or its, in the case of a horse.

Furthermore, I have learned from Sir Edwin Lutyens, the well-known architect, and a frequent traveller on Keys vessels, that his daughter Ursula is engaged to marry Viscount Ridley. This news also came by wireless, and I'm sure that each and every one of you is as thrilled and as... well, as thrilled as I am. Simply thrilled."

Rudyard was worried now. He squeezed Louise's hand just once, and then released it. He heard someone in the dining lounge say quite distinctly, "He's drunk. The fellow's quite drunk."

Sir Peregrine suddenly said, "To sail... as indeed we are sailing now... on the maiden voyage of one of the world's most..." He paused, searching for an adjective. "Most... auspicious... ocean liners, a veritable Venus of the waves... that indeed is a privilege both for myself as captain and indeed for every one of you who has been lucky enough... or indeed privileged enough..."

"He's paralytic," someone else whispered loudly.

An anxious murmuring rippled up and down the dining lounge. Sir Peregrine looked around and half-raised his arm, as if the murmuring were caused by a wasp which he could swat. But then a woman's voice said, "I can't believe it. He's actually drunk. He can't even talk properly."

Rudyard got up from his seat, and quickly crossed the aisle to Sir Peregrine's table. He grasped Sir Peregrine's elbow, and steadied him, smiling as he did so to all the guests who were staring at him in such surprise and anxiety.

"Mr. Philips," said Sir Peregrine, "what the devil are you doing? I'm addressing the passengers. Kindly return to your seat at once."

"Sir, you're not well," Rudyard insisted. "Why don't you come back to your quarters with me and lie down for a while."

"Lie down? Lie down? Are you mad? I'm giving a speech. I can't lie down."

"It's all right, Sir Peregrine. You've said everything you needed to say. Now, why don't you let me help you get back to your quarters."

Sir Peregrine indignantly wrenched his arm away, and stood up straight, his eyes bright with indignation. "Mr. Philips, sir, I'll have you know that I am completely in control of my faculties, and that you have committed a serious breach of company and maritime discipline. Besides, I thought you were supposed to be under arrest, in your cabin."

"Sir Peregrine, please" Rudyard begged him.

But he didn't have to beg any more. Sir Peregrine's face suddenly turned a hideous mauve, and he opened and closed his mouth like a fish behind glass. Before Rudyard could save him, he toppled over backwards and fell into his strawberry souffle, and then on to the floor. He lay there twitching and quivering for a moment, and then lay still.

"Go down to the second-class dining lounge and bring Dr. Fields up," Rudyard ordered one of the stewards. "Quickly, now! Tell him the captain's had a heart seizure!"